Wednesday, December 14, 2005

an ode to frank o'hara

she's the woman you want, Frank O’Hara, between the beige sheets of your bed in the morning. she'll tell you how she thinks Hesiod was just a scared Benjamin Franklin. then she'll listen when you tell her that the poet she should be concerned withis not Hesiod at all, but another Greek.

she'll offer you Echinacea to go with you ciggy and beer as she stands there naked and smiling. you'll want to touch her as she moves, she's soft and young. she's soft but fueled. she's dedicated to you.

she's the kind of lady you'll want to dance with when you're drunk and stuttering. she'll laugh and lead you in any steps.

trust me, she's the right girl to take home to your mother. she'll help cook and clean without intruding on family traditions. you should be willing to sleep on your own sofa so that she gets a handsome night sleep in your old bedroom.

she might get upset when you tell heryou slept with another manbut she's still in love with you after all. she'll sleep in your bed, in your house, whether you're there or not, and she won't stop until you tell her to go home.

be kind to her Frank O’Hara, there are so few of these true lovers left in the world today, especially in your city of art.

she'll want to move to a beach house but won't,not without you, she says, and you'll believe her, and make her stay for the night. you can lie together, just you O’Haraand this little minx of knowledge and eye power, and she'll know just where to touch you—to make you shiver.

this should be your favorite part, she'll talk in her sleep, more so after sex than usual, and she'll share her secrets with you then. she'll tell you she trusts you. that's when you can tell her you know she loves you. she's the kind of girl you want to love. tell her that. tell her you want to love her. that you know all her secrets and that it's okay to love you for now.

give her a kiss like you've never given before but don't touch her. later you'll hug her, hold her, feel her melt in your dirty arms covered in the city's charcoal dustand smeared with pastel.

she's the only girl you want to know, but you still wish she was a man so she could be your best friend, then you wouldn't need to know anyone else.

you'll fall in love with her body because of the way she touches you with it. she loves you with it.

don't tell your mother anything about her before, just bring her there. she's the kind of lady your mother will love (she'll wish she was her daughter) then your mother will ask you while you're alone if you plan to marry her. you have your mother's blessings.

don't sleep with her that night no matter how much her smile turns you on, wait until your back at your flat, back between your well-worn sheets. she'll ask you to leave the big window shades open so she can see the city stars while you make love to her.

she might cry now and again, but only when she's happy. if she tells you she's pregnant don't ask her who the father is. you know she'd only ever sleep with poets. the baby would be yours, if you had her Frank O’Hara.

she is your Byzantium;the kind of woman you should have had.

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an oldie but a goodie. i must have written this at least 3 years ago. not bad though really.